Just a little bit of whismy, don't even remember how I came up with it, just woke up and it was in my head and needed out (guess it was lonely)-
Enjoy

* * *

There I am, boxers around my ankles, in a sleazy run-down hotel with a lady of ill-repute, when the pounding on the door starts. Racing for the open window she is out and down the fire escape in a heartbeat screaming, “You ain’t takin’ me in, Jonesie.”

My first thought was, this is kind of funny, in an embarrassing sort of way. The moment replayed in my mind of her ass cheeks jiggling, titties bouncing, and arms flailing, gripping a pair of pants. The humor evaporated with the door crashing inward, and the realization those were my pants she was waving about.

“Don’t move buddy.” He was big enough to block the sun from entering the open doorway, and all I could see was that badge on his belt.

So, there I stood, with both hands shading my eyes as I tried to make sense of this all. Like I’m going anywhere, hobbled with my underwear.

Big bastard rips past me, and hollers out the window, “Dammit, Jenny Lee, you know I’m gonna catch your ass. Told you quit peddling it in front of Pete’s. You owe Fred for the door.”

He turned his attention to me. “Your lucky day buddy, I’m not after johns, just pros. You want to pull your drawers up? Whew, had no idea it was that cold.”

In the present situation I let the snide remark slide, and pulled up my boxers.

“You did know she was hooking?”

Now I wasn’t sure if this was a trap, or could be considered a confession in court. On the other hand, didn’t think I had much to lose. “Had a pretty good idea when she asked for the money up front.”

“So, you got a name, smart ass?” He took out a pad and nub of a pencil. Thought he would’ve entered gun drawn, and there would’ve been back up. I had seen neither. Two or three day old whiskers, and clothes I’d only wear if I were painting my house, he didn’t look like a cop. With jelly doughnut and coffee stains on his shirt, he ate like one.

“Homer.”

“Nice start, finish it.”

“Ah, Homer Simpson.”

“Homer Simpson, cute. Homer fucking Simpson,” he repeated. He quit writing. “When I said, wasn’t after johns, it was under the condition you cooperate with me. Get my drift?”

“Your alleged target got away, leaving her panties and bra, but having the foresight to take my pants and wallet. You’re here, and she’s obviously not.”

“I’ll pick her ass up later, you better worry about yours. Let’s have your real name.”

“Homer Simpson, is my real name. And I’d like to point out, I’ve had it longer than the TV guy.”

“Uh-huh. Let me guess, I.D. is in your pants, which Jenny Lee took?”

“Yes.”

“So, suppose you get a lot of grief from people?”

“I would, but I go by H.B. Sim–”

”Ah-hah, an alias. Give it up.”

“Officer- I mean detective Jones, it isn’t an alias. It’s my full name, Homer Bartholomew Simpson. Yes, I know, this can’t get much worse. Far as I know, it was no conspiracy, just a cruel twist of fate.”

“Oh, on the contrary H.B., it can get much worse, and will if you don’t play it straight. DMV computers are down, so let’s try telephone and address.”

“Ah, 7-7-5, definitely.” I closed my eyes and concentrated, then scratched my head and continued, “1-3-7, or 7-3-1, but might be 3–”

”Never mind, you’re still missing a number–”

“Last number is nine,” I cut in, thinking I was helping.

He grunted, and the look he gave me told me I was wrong. “Prefix is local. So, means you got an address right?”

“Orange Grove, near Park Ridge. Ah, 7-4-2-0, or 7-2, but–”

“Enough. How long have you lived there?”

“Twelve years, maybe thirteen, almost certain it’s not over–”

“What the hell? Do you want run in, joker? I don’t have time for games.” Pretty sure that was rhetorical, so I didn’t answer. “You give me a phony name, have no idea how long you’ve lived at your current residence, much less where it is, or even your damn phone number. Gotta be honest buddy, I got rules to go by, and they tell me to run your ass in, til we can get this straightened out.”

“Understand completely how this looks, and I can indeed sympathize with you, but I can explain. See, I’ve a strange condition with numbers. Can’t remember them for shit! I swear, it’s the truth.”

“No, I know my numbers, and math functions. Just can’t remember numbers, dates and such. Events? Not a problem, but the date of them is definitely a problem. I seem to have no concept of time, or just get confused with it. You give me a stopwatch and tell me to let you know when two minutes are up. Nine times out of a ten I won’t be able to do it. Numbers just start clogging up in my head, and I forget what I’m doing, or where I’m at. A co-worker suggested tattooing important numbers on my arm. Which in this situation would’ve been a damn good idea. Even have a card explaining my condition.”

“Really. How about you letting me see it.”

“Well, it’s in my wallet–”

“Which is with Jenny Lee,” Detective Jones finished, giving me a major dose of stink eye. “What else you lose?”

“About three hundred in cash, but half of it was hers–”

“You gave Jenny Lee one-fifty? Jesus Christ, you’re a damn tourist. She’d have done you for fifty and split the cost of the room. Hell, you don’t let the working girls even eyeball your wallet. It’s like a big ass bone to a junkyard dog. Too damn tempting and gone in a heartbeat, no matter what the risk. Dammit, common sense should tell you, leave your pants around your ankles, so you get to keep them as well. How about credit cards? She’ll go ape shit with–”

“Don’t have any. Banks take one look at the name and think it’s a crank.”

“Well, that’ll save you some phone calls. Once we get this cleared up you can file a report. Gotta warn you, your pants went one direction, wallet the other, and Jenny Lee in yet another.” Pointing at the phone book he inquired, “Suppose, not much of a chance you’re listed?”

I gave him a shrug. “Unlisted, too many crank calls.”

“Got a ring on. Let me guess, Marge?”

“She goes by her middle name, Ann.”

“Alright, how about we give Ann a first name?”

“That would be Margaret.”

“O-okay, Margaret it is. Naturally, Marge for short. Is there a Bart, Lisa or Maggie? Anyone home that might identify you?”

“We were going to name our daughter Maggie May, after the Rod Stewart song, but thought she might get made fun of too much. We picked Julie Ann, and our son is Jonathan Bartholomew, but he likes going by Bart. But, wife and kids are up visiting relatives for another week. No one is home.”

“How about a car, with your registration?”

“It’s in the bar parking lot down the street, but registered in the company name–”

“That’ll work, someone can verify your name at work.” I started shaking my head, and he added, “Discreetly. I’ll just tell them I’m looking into a traffic ticket, or–”

“Toppers, for your roofing needs. Have business cards, in my wallet. Doesn’t matter, it’s Saturday afternoon and no one is in.”

“Well Mister Simpson, afraid my hands are tied. I’m going to have to take you in, til I can get everything verified.”

Which is what he did.

I wasn’t too sure of the charges, just heard numbers rattled off while I was being booked. Took my fingerprints, mug shots, and had me fill out the forms. That was a joy, seeing as I tried to be honest and told them I wasn’t sure of the numbers. I was labeled a transient, and saw one charge, indecent exposure. Not sure how that applied, seeing as I wasn’t running around, but taken outside by the cop. Didn’t ask too many questions, just pissed them off more, and I didn’t get any answer besides, ‘Tell it to the judge.’

* * *

Saw the judge Monday morning, but he postponed the case, til I could be charged under my right name. Tried to tell him it was my real name, but he said something about a competency hearing and contempt charges.

I was certain the DMV main computer must be up by now, which I was happy to hear this was true. Unfortunately, for me, I had a pending court decision in my file. I tried to tell all I saw the judge hadn’t seen me, nothing could be pending. But, I got the same answer as before, ‘Tell it to the judge.’

* * *

It is now Wednesday, and I haven’t seen any progress with the situation, nor a judge. Called a lawyer Monday, but still haven’t heard from him, and I can’t remember the number I called. With the help of directory assistance tried to call my sister-in-law’s collect, but no one would accept the charges from a jail. Haven’t heard from Detective Jones, and anyone I ask to get him a message, they just say, ‘sure, get right on it, Homer. Doh!’

Even though I’m not clear on the charges against me I thought they could only hold me for seventy-two hours, a number I can surprisingly remember. A lot of good it does me, seeing as apparently it’s bullshit. Either that or no one will take my paperwork serious.

Not sure how long of a sentence you can get for being a transient and indecent exposure. But, know what I’m doing when I get out, changing my damn name, legally. Had a lot of time to think about it, and trying to choose a first name that is not common, and even though I’ll just keep using initials, a real name.

So, I considered last names for a first, as in Monroe, Lincoln, Jefferson, but quickly saw the pattern this was leading to, and discarded it. Naturally, this led to thinking of simple basic names like, Adam, Ben, or Charles.

Now I’m definitely thinking, ‘Owen, Owen Jonas Simpson.’

The End

freedom

06-25-2007, 05:28 PM

That's cute thanks

davesmistress

06-25-2007, 10:44 PM

hahahha what a great tale...thanks

wizardwriter

06-25-2007, 10:50 PM

Glad you like it, has a little bit of truth about the jail thing, but I'm sure you ladies wouldn't know about that. Well...